


Words Unspoken

by spooky_nerd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Mute John, Protective Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooky_nerd/pseuds/spooky_nerd
Summary: John, injured in battle and rendered temporarily mute, was sent home and now works as an emergency surgeon at St. Bart's. It's a welcome distraction from the boredom of civilian life, but it doesn't compare to the adrenaline rush of combat. However, all this changes when he is jumped in an alley on the way home from work and ends up apprehending a wanted murderer for the police.  Enter Sherlock Holmes, eager to solve the case and fascinated by John, whose whole life is about to change.





	1. Chapter 1

On the nights that he does sleep, he dreams.The acrid smoke of them wraps its tendrils around his memories of blood and gore and stirs them up like a sandstorm.Sometimes bits and pieces of them rearrange into brand-new horrifying machinations.His sister, dead on the battlefield.His father, in the eyes of an armed hostile.Sleep has become an enemy, and he realizes that this is a battle his training never prepared him for.He supposes either he will eventually recover or the dreams will ultimately be his end.But until then, he has his work.At least he has that.

 

His clipped walk takes him into the hospital at 7 on the dot like always, and like always a nurse matches pace with him and begins to brief him on the latest patient.Arthur Gerald, age 38, fell off the roof and impaled through the lower left abdomen by a fence post.Severe blood-loss, possible punctured colon.He sets his shoulders.Off to battle.

 

He emerges from the operating room 2 hours later, feeling that familiar heady rush as waves of adrenaline break the surface.Another successful surgery.Another life saved.Not quite as good as combat, but it’ll do in a pinch. 

 

He’s hardly finished washing up when he hears the familiar metallic bang of the ER doors bursting open.“Doctor Watson!” his nurse calls.“We got another one!”

 

And he smiles, because he loves Mondays.

 

* * *

The delicate blue china tea cup bounces off the wall and smashes unceremoniously to the floor, leaving a slowly-expanding puddle of Earle Grey to bleed into the carpet beneath it.It is only the latest in growing list of casualties, in an ongoing war with no foreseeable end. But the offender couldn’t care less.“I HATE MONDAYS!” he screams.

 

Almost as if being summoned, Mrs. Hudson materializes at the threshold, clutching her chest in distress as she picks her way through the wreckage of the living room.“Oh, Sherlock!Your Monday rages are not good for my property value.You really must find a way to cope, dear.”

 

“Well until people start committing more interesting crimes on Mondays, I am afraid I will remain stagnant,” he replies, disdainfully drawing out the consonants of the last word.He is perched in his favorite chair like an ill-tempered cat, practically boiling from within for lack of anything better to do.

 

“Really, dear, there must be more to life than solving murders.Perhaps a friend?”

 

His disgust is nearly palpable.“I don’t have _friends,"_ he sneers, and he nearly chokes on the word.  "Friends are for sentimental simpletons and I have no interest in vapid weekly get-togethers at filthy pubs just to talk about the opposite sex or the current meteorological conditions in the city.”

 

To Sherlock’s horror, Mrs. Hudson lets out what he can only categorize as a giggle.“Goodness, Sherlock, is that what you think friends do?”And with that she bustles off, leaving a bewildered, still-grumpy consulting detective in her wake.

* * *

John’s adrenaline bottoms out near the tail-end of his shift, and he barely manages to ride the wave out til 7 a.m. when the shift finally ends.There is a changing of the guard in which he tiredly greets the doctor who will take the shift from him, then he dons a pair of sweat pants and a sweatshirt and jogs home.The other doctors always look at him like he’s gone insane when he does this, but despite the intense 12-hour shifts, his body needs action in the same way it needs oxygen: ridiculously often.And pushing himself to the brink is his only hope at a good night’s sleep.

 

Around the second mile, he notices he’s being followed.A dark, hooded figure, tall and probably male based on the gait and size.It’s a sudden jolt to his battle-hardened senses and he notices that he is not afraid, but ready.He turns a nearby corner and waits for the stranger to follow.Then, he strikes, quick and sure.

 

* * *

Sherlock allows the banging on the door to intensify to a nearly unbearable level before he finally acquiesces and lets Lestrade in.He observes pleasantly the red tint of the Inspector’s cheeks that indicates he is addled from the effort of working up enough fervor to get Sherlock to open the door.He also senses something big is coming, if the Inspector’s haphazardly knotted tie and wrinkled shirt are anything to go by.Clearly the man dressed in a rush.

 

Lestrade is talking now.And the tell-tale tightness in this man’s shoulders tells Sherlock that perhaps he should listen.“You remember that string of muggings that escalated to murders?Your homeless network got you a description of the guys but we could never verify it because they disappeared?Well, we found one of them.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes.“ _You_ found one?How?I couldn’t even find them with my homeless network, I assumed they’d fled the country.There’s no way Scotland Yard managed this on its own; there’s something more to it.”

 

To Lestrade’s credit, he does not engage the jab at Scotland Yard’s capability.“Alright, alright.So we didn’t actually find him.More like he got handed to us.He tried to mug an off-duty surgeon out for a jog and the bloke really gave it to him.Called 999 and kept him there until we got to the scene.You should’ve seen the poor bastard’s face.I had no idea doctors could be so violent.”Lestrade lets out a mirthless chuckle.

 

Sherlock hums quietly, thinking.“I suppose you at least thought to bring this doctor in for questioning?”

 

Lestrade rolls his eyes.“Of course we did.He’s down at the Yard now giving a statement, and since the mugger is refusing to talk, he’s our only hope at possibly identifying the accomplice.Though if you ask me, it’s a little suspicious this bloke was able to survive an attack like that _and_ have the presence of mind to detain the guy for the police.I wouldn’t rule out possibly involvement.”

 

Sherlock is already pulling on his coat and scarf, but his eyes waste no time in rolling back into his head.“Please, Graham, wild conjectures are akin to insanity in their pointlessness and unreliability, so I beg you: spare me yours.I should like to speak with this doctor as well.”When Lestrade doesn’t immediately answer, he turns around to face him.“What?”

 

“Well, you see that’s gonna be a bit tricky … Also, it’s GREG.”

 

* * *

Although he’s aware he’s done nothing wrong, he’s beginning to feel more and more guilty the longer he sits in what the sergeant had told him was “the statement room.”He suspects this was just a poorly veiled attempt at making him think he’s not currently sitting in an interrogation room.  Who has an entire room for statements, after all?  He shifts uneasily in his seat and his brain begins to catalogue possible escape routes and defense strategies before he realizes what he’s doing.Old habits die hard, Watson, he thinks.

 

A booming voice interrupts his tactical planning just as he’s coming up with a seventh way to disarm the sergeant with the pencil she’d given him to write his statement.The owner of the voice bursts into the interrogation room and takes everything in with a wild-eyed, sweeping glance.

 

“Ah, Doctor Watson, I presume.Although I see you’ve only recently started going by Doctor again.Been on tour, haven’t you.Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John stares squarely back at the man but does not answer.

 

“Ah, that’s right, they told me you don’t speak.Injured in battle, I assume, most likely a head wound but not permanently damaged or the prestigious Bart’s hospital wouldn’t have hired you on so quickly after you came home.They’re anticipating a full recovery.I also suspect you can talk a bit but you're frustrated by the effort and you think an impediment makes you appear weak and have thus resolved to remain mute until you’ve fully recovered.”

 

John narrows his eyes suspiciously at this strange, tall individual who’s just told the story of the last month of his life with such self-assurance it makes him think for one wild second that maybe they know each other and he’s just forgotten.

 

The man barrels on ahead, seemingly oblivious to John’s stand-offishness.“Though for the time being, how do you communicate, I wonder?The emergency O.R. is a stressful environment, necessitating quick action.No time to write things down so you must use sign language.Perhaps they’ve afforded you a temporary on-the-job interpreter.They must have really wanted you badly to go to all that trouble.To that affect it is clear you’re not quite as stupid as most since you must have learned sign language very quickly seeing as you’ve only been home for about … three weeks?”

 

John holds up two fingers.

 

“Ah, two weeks then.Even better.While charades _is_ fun, I’m afraid it’s not the most efficient use of our time.I unfortunately never learned sign language; never really had a need you see.But I can of course read and I see that you can write.Perhaps we can communicate that way.But first, I’m assuming you have at least one question for me.”

 

John nods, holding up one finger in a polite wait-a-minute motion as he turns the page on the notepad the sergeant had given him.For a few beats, the only sound in the room is the scratching of pencil on paper.Then he slides the notepad away from himself and the man deftly intercepts it before it launches off the table.He takes it in with a glance and smiles, undoubtedly at John’s use of a few choice obscenities. 

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.You can call me Sherlock,” he says, and John finds himself exhaling a quick breath of laughter at the irony of the statement.It’s the first time he’s laughed since returning to London, he realizes.

 

Sherlock Holmes gives a crooked grin and continues, seemingly encouraged by John’s reaction.“I am a consulting detective, which means that I lend my skills to Scotland Yard on occasion to assist them when they are out of their depth, which is most of the time.I know these things about you because I pay attention, I observe.For example, I observe that you have a tan, meaning you’ve been somewhere sunny, so somewhere not in England.And I observe that your tan stops at the wrists, meaning you’ve been wearing long sleeves in the sun, so not vacationing.That coupled with your excellent posture, the grown-out remnants of a crew-cut and the fact that you took down a man who’s killed 3 men bigger than yourself with no trouble suggests that you’re in the military.Hence my earlier question: Afghanistan or Iraq.”With that, Sherlock Holmes slides the notepad back to John.His move.

 

John remains absolutely still, processing, for several moments.Then, he gives a quick nod and writes _Afghanistan_ on the piece of paper, along with another word. _Brilliant._

 

John can almost swear he sees a hint of crimson creep up along the other man’s cheekbones now.“Thank you, but I’m afraid most people would disagree with your assessment.”

 

Sherlock waves off the crease that forms between John’s eyebrows.“Oh, don’t worry about it.I’m a genius and an asshole, it tends to be off-putting.”

 

John lets out another quick snort of laughter, which makes Sherlock smile.

 

“Well then, now that we’re acquainted I suppose we should discuss why you’re here.”

 

John’s face darkens.His spine straightens almost imperceptibly as he fixes Sherlock with a wary gaze.

 

“You see, the thing is,” Sherlock begins almost apologetically.“They didn’t bother to observe that you’re military.So when they saw a doctor take down a violent killer, I believe they thought you were somehow involved.Perhaps in their minds you were an accomplice and the two of you had a disagreement which resulted in you getting the other arrested.”

 

John must make a face because Sherlock Holmes then says, “I know.The fact that mere proximity would lead them to draw this conclusion is … monumentally idiotic isn’t it?”

 

John raises an eyebrow and cants his head, nonplussed.

 

“Right, well now that we’ve ruled out possible involvement through pure common sense, we can begin the real work.You see, the man who attacked you has been found guilty of several muggings that have recently escalated to murder.His primary victims have been men, and many of them very large men.However, your case is different.You see, in the past he has always worked with an accomplice, but we’ve been unable to track down the accomplice or get a description of him.But this time was different.This time he attacked you on his own.The police have called me here to gain as much insight from you about the event as possible in order to track down the second attacker.So, I would like you to tell me everything you remember about the attack, spare no details.Even the most seemingly insignificant minutia may be important, so ——“John holds up one finger and Sherlock halts suddenly, the momentum from his monologue nearly sending him careening forward.

 

Sherlock watches silently, perplexed as John writes a few words on the notepad and slides it across to him.It says simply, _There were two._

 

Sherlock’s head whips up again and he fixes John with a burning gaze.“You’re sure?”he asks and it’s nearly a threat.John, now leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, nods smugly.

 

“What happened then?I need to know everything.”Sherlock’s entire body thrums with impatience and John can’t hold back the crooked grin that spreads across his face.Slowly and carefully, he picks up the pencil and writes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! School stuff :)

Lestrade is sitting at his desk knee-deep in paperwork and half-drunk on bad coffee when Sherlock bursts through the door like an explosion, followed by a red-faced Donovan and a rather smug Dr. Watson.

 “Lestrade it appears once again your incompetence has nearly been the end of us.Dr. Watson has informed me that there were indeed two attackers and they attempted to flee when the good doctor here fought back more than they’d anticipated.He managed to grab one of them in the confusion and hold him for the police.He believes he can identify the other attacker and remembers the direction in which he fled.Since I’m assuming the attacker in your custody has still not given up his accomplice’s identity, I intend to make use of our valuable witness.Dr. Watson, this way please.”

 And with that, Sherlock bounds out of the room with John Watson in tow, leaving Lestrade to stare agape.

 

* * *

Outside Scotland Yard, the night is crisp and the stars poke through the clear night sky like cigarette burns.John fills his lungs with the free air and exhales a sigh of relief.He has always disliked being confined, but since Afghanistan he relishes his freedom with a nearly religious fervor.

 Sherlock seems to pick up on the waves of relief rolling off of him, because he says, “Sorry again about all that.There are times in which Lestrade approaches the outer limits of competence.However, he is still predominantly an idiot.”

 John inclines his head briefly and when he looks back up at Sherlock, his face wears an expression that the detective cannot decipher.Their eyes meet for several moments, and something unknown and electric passes between them until John looks away, shivering slightly from the cold.He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the notepad.He writes.

  _You didn’t tell Inspector Lestrade you recognized the man I described._

 Sherlock smiles, a little ghost of a thing.“I didn’t, did I. I don’t know about you, Doctor Watson, but I’ve had a slow week.I think a good old-fashioned chase is in order.”He glances down at John conspiratorially.“Are you up for it?”

 John nods. _Thought you’d never ask._

 

* * *

It takes them all of two hours to find the suspect, who turns out to be Thomas Waltham, a known drug dealer and jack-of-all-trades criminal.Waltham flees and they corner him in a back alley.He throws a wild fist in Sherlock’s direction, but John intercepts it and brings the man to the ground by punching him squarely in the face and sweeping his legs out from under him.All of this occurs just in time for Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan to arrive on the scene.

 John hears the sirens and looks up from his position on top of the criminal and his eyes hold a question.

 Sherlock replies.“Yes, I called them.We can’t do their _entire_ job for them, that would make it too easy.”And then to Lestrade, “Ah, Lestrade.As ever, your punctuality precedes your inefficacy.Doctor Watson has apprehended your accomplice.”

 Lestrade’s eyes grow wide.“Doctor Watson, it looks like we may owe you a bloody medal by the time all of this is over.How’d you find him?”

 “Doctor Watson gave me a description of the accomplice and I recognized him from past dealings.It only took a few well-placed bribes to locate him.We gave chase, he attempted to attack me, and Doctor Watson took him down.”

 “Well don’t you two make a good team,” Lestrade says approvingly.

 “Boss, ready to go,” Donovan calls, unceremoniously shoving Waltham into the back of the police vehicle.

 “Alright, well that’s my cue.You boys take care.Doctor Watson, thank you again for your help.We’ll be in touch.”They shake hands and Lestrade adds after a moment of hesitation, “I’d tell you to keep an eye on him because he’s trouble, but maybe I should be telling him to watch out for you. You’re the most bloody violent doctor I’ve ever met.”With a final smirk at the two of them, Lestrade slides into the passenger seat of the paddy wagon and rides off with Donovan and an incensed Thomas Waltham, who is likely to sport a black eye and an indictment for armed robbery and second degree murder by morning.

 “Well, that was fun,” Sherlock says, and the fact that he means it is equal parts unnerving and exhilarating to John.“Hungry?”

 John nods. _Starving_

  _“_ Good.I know a place.Helped the owner get out of a murder charge a few years back; he gives me free food whenever I come in.Do you like Italian?”

 

* * *

The restaurant is warm and inviting and has the eclectic, uncorrupted air of authenticity that hints at genuine Italian cuisine.John breathes in the smells, lets the warmth soak into every pore.He regrets not taking in more of the city since returning home.He breathes in London and it welcomes him home.

 A large, balding man meets them at the door and at once envelops Sherlock’s hand in two of his own, shaking it heartily.The man sports a silver ponytail and an apron spotted with grease, and Sherlock greets him with his own brand of unobtrusive camaraderie.

 “Sherlock, my friend, welcome back!”The man bellows in an accent hinting at Italian roots.I see you’ve not been eating well, let us take care of that.”Then the man notices John.“And who is this?Brought a plus-one tonight, have you Sherlock?” 

 “Yes, of course.Angelo, this is Doctor John Watson.He’ll be joining me,” says Sherlock, not missing a beat. 

 The man grabs Johns hand and shakes it just as enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the blush creeping along the top of John’s cheeks.“It is a pleasure to meet you.Any friend of Sherlock’s is a friend of mine.Right this way boys, our finest table and two specials on the house,” Angelo continues, sparing John the ordeal of having to reply.

 John has hardly shifted into a comfortable position in his chair when Angelo comes rushing back out, carrying a candle.The warm glow softly illuminates his face.“A candle for the table,” he announces as he sets it down with a flourish.“Much more romantic,” and he disappears just as quickly as he arrived.

 For a moment John and Sherlock share a panic-stricken glance, and then it dissolves into a fit of chuckling.“I assure you, Doctor Watson, my intentions are not dishonorable,” Sherlock says good-naturedly, the light from the candle softening his face.

 John waves him off dismissively, still chuckling himself.But he does manage to pull out his notepad and jot down quickly, _call me John._

 Sherlock seems pleased if the minute straightening of his shoulders and uptick of the right corner of his mouth is anything to go by.“All right, John.Tell me: has London treated you well since your return?”

 John nods and simultaneously raises his left shoulder.Sherlock takes it to mean, _just as well as I could have hoped, all things considered_ , which is nearly exactly what John was thinking. 

 “Ah, of course.Must be difficult adjusting after such an extended period of time overseas.And you miss the battlefield despite the fact that everyone is telling you how lucky you should feel to be home.”

 John looks astonished and signs a quick question, momentarily forgetting in his astonishment that Sherlock does not know sign language.The detective seems to understand him once again, however.

 “The signs are fairly obvious.When you were invalided home you wasted no time in acquiring a job at the largest hospital in London, with the busiest emergency room in all of England.From one battlefield to another.You jogged home from work tonight, despite having just come off of strenuous 12-hour shift.Not to mention you still haven’t found a place to live, which I know by smell of hotel soap in your hair and the fold creases in your clothes, which you still store in an overnight bag.You’re averse to settling down because you believe that finding a permanent place will only solidify the fact that you’re stuck here until you recover.”

 John looks down at the table, studies the curving grain of the wood for a moment, searching for answers in the crevices.Then he meets Sherlock’s eyes and nods.Sherlock takes in the man before him, the light blue of his eyes, the sandy blonde hair, the tanned skin, and is lost for a moment.He catalogs each detail and files it away in his memory, and he turns over this new puzzle of a man in his mind.Then, he speaks.“John, what if you could simultaneously satisfy your adrenaline cravings and work for the good of our dear city?”

 John eyes him skeptically.

 “You see,” he continues.“I am taking on a new business venture of sorts, and I’m in need of a partner.For every case that gets solved by Scotland Yard, there are five more that don’t.What if we could change that?”

 John begins to sign again, but remembers himself this time and jots down his question.“ _You want to solve London’s unsolvable crimes?_ ”

 Sherlock leans in, a keen predatory glint in his eye.“Yes.Will you help me?”

 John writes, _I don’t know the first thing about detective work._

  _“_ Perhaps not yet … but you will.And you already possess valuable skills that I find myself in need of.You’re a soldier.You’re quick on your feet, a surgeon with battlefield experience, you’ve got a brilliant left hook, and I’d wager you’re a crack shot.This work will be dangerous John, and those skills will be immensely necessary, do not doubt it.But the risk will be worth it if we can lessen the suffering in this city by any small increment and have the time of our lives while doing so.”Sherlock leans in impossibly closer.“Will you come with me into battle, John Watson?”

 John’s mind was made up before Sherlock even finishes.He smirks, and then nods. _Yes._

 Then, as if on cue, Angelo appears suddenly and quietly at the table side with two heaping plates of chicken parmigiana, causing both men to jump, having momentarily forgotten about the existence of an outside world.“Ah, apologies. You looked rather serious so I told the kitchen to hold the food.”

 John signs a quick thank you to Angelo, and to his surprise, Angelo responds in kind with _‘you’re welcome’._ John’s face must betray his surprise, because Sherlock explains, “Angelo’s daughter is deaf.”

 “Yes.Since birth.But she does very well reading lips.Perhaps we could have the two of you over for dinner one night.She’d be thrilled to be able to speak with someone that is not her parents,” Angelo says with a chuckle.

  _That sounds wonderful, thank you,_ John signs.

 Angelo bows politely and promises to check in later before quietly slipping back to the kitchen.

 The dinner is a singular experience.He has to make a conscious effort to eat slowly, because it’s been years since he’s tasted anything this good.

 They say very little because it appears they are both starving, but Sherlock entertains John with a few deductions about the other diners.The man in the corner booth is having an affair because of the tan line on his finger.The woman at the bar has at least three cats.The waiter who just brought them a fresh carafe of water is a functioning alcoholic. 

 John listens, fascinated by the grand deductions spun from an intricate web of minute details, and relieved that for once there is no pressure for him to converse. They pass the evening in much of the same way, conversing until way past closing time. When they exit the restaurant, Sherlock hands John a card in lieu of a goodbye. “I have a lead on a flat. Reasonable prices, in the heart of the city. The landlady owes me a favor,” he explains. “Meet me at this address tomorrow, 11 a.m., and we’ll see what you think of it.” 

 And with that, Sherlock Holmes whisks himself off into the night, that ridiculously dramatic coat flapping in the wind.John shakes his head with a chuckle and looks down at the card.  221B Baker St., it reads.


	3. Chapter 3

John stands on the pavement, looking up at 221B and wondering, not for the first time, if he’s made a mistake. This Sherlock Holmes is practically a stranger to him. 

Somewhere deep inside this knocks over a memory of his first year of uni. His mother’s thin hands shaking as she fussed over his jumper. Her cautionary words to him, imploring him to make good choices in friends and never go home with strangers. His father, nursing a beer in front of the telly at 10 am and telling him to steer clear of all the queers at uni because someone at the shops had told him a few weeks ago that they were everywhere in the city.

What would his parents think about him now, he wonders. Moving in with a stranger to help him solve crimes on his off-time. What would Harry think? He hasn’t seen his parents in over seven years, not since he graduated from med school. He hasn’t seen Harry in over two years, not since he was home on furlough and she met him for coffee to tell him Clara had left her and then given him her mobile that Clara had had engraved because it was too painful for her to keep now. He still uses the mobile, and some ridiculous part of him wants to keep it hidden from Sherlock Holmes on the off-chance he’d be able to deduce John piss-poor family situation just by looking at it.

John shakes off the haze of recollection and feels a tug of apprehension deep in his gut, but he rides out the wave of nervousness and lets it propel him up to the door. He’s John Watson, damnit. He invaded Afghanistan. He can handle Sherlock Holmes. He taps the knocker confidently.

A woman, somewhere in her early 70s, answers the door. She seems unassuming and kind and puts John at ease a bit. “Oh, hello dear, you must be Dr. Watson,” she says with a chipper trill and immediately shows him inside. She keeps up a constant flow of conversation as she shows him upstairs, and John’s sense of medical curiosity wonders how long she will go without stopping for breath.

“Sherlock’s upstairs. He’s been tidying, can you believe it? You must be a special one because in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him tidy a thing. When he was living out in Brixton, I used to take pity on him and clean the flat when I visited. I once let a tea saucer sit on his mantle for 6 months, just as an experiment, just to see if he would be bothered to take it to the sink. He never did, and I do sometimes wonder if it’s still there today,” she says with a chuckle.

When they reach the landing, she opens the door to 221B, where Sherlock Holmes is busying himself with placing books on a large inlaid shelf near the fireplace. The flat is warm and inviting, if not a bit dusty. John is pleased, and it must show on his face because Sherlock smiles and greets him warmly.

“Ah, John, thank you for coming,” Sherlock says, giving him a friendly handshake. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. I’ve just been unpacking a few things,” Sherlock says, gesturing with the large medical textbook in his left hand. He seems to thrum with nervous energy, which is a new side of him that John has not yet seen. John finds it strangely endearing.

“So,” Sherlock continues. “What do you think of it?”

John nods, jotting quickly on his pad.

_Very nice._

 

Sherlock nods, seeming pleased. “Good. I’ve just about finished unpacking. I’ve taken the room downstairs. I do believe you will find the one up the stairs to be to your liking. It is spacious so no need to worry about getting claustrophobic, and the window overlooks an alley so you get a nice breeze at night. Now, before we proceed any further, I think we should share the worst about one another. All potential flatmates should know these things about each other, you know. I myself am temperamental, often rude or off-putting, and prone to fits of boredom. I am endeavoring to quit smoking, which makes me all the more irritable. I scarcely sleep, and I often sit awake playing the violin at all hours.” 

When he is finished, he looks expectantly towards John, who recovers well from the the momentary shock at the sudden outpouring of information and takes a moment to jot down on his notepad:

_As long as you play the violin well I can handle all the rest._

 

“Quite well,” Sherlock assures John, looking almost relieved.

John nods and turns to a fresh page in the notepad.

_I’m a soldier. We’re not the easiest people to live with, you know._

 

“Well, neither am I. So it seems we’re a perfect match,” Sherlock says with a crooked grin.

 

* * *

Sherlock shows John around the rest of the flat, and after the tour he hands John the lease to sign. John leaves shortly after, and a shameless Mrs. Hudson watches him carefully as he leaves.

“My, dear, he’s very handsome,” she says to Sherlock as soon as John has left. “And he’s the strong silent type, I can tell.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, electing not to comment lest he encourage this horrifying show of sentimentality.

Mrs. Hudson is admirably undeterred by Sherlock’s stony silence. “You know in all these years I’ve never seen you with anyone,” she continues. “And then all those dreadful types you’ve had over at the flat since you moved in,” she says with a shudder. “It is a relief to see that you have good taste in men, dear.”And with that, she saunters out the door with a delighted chuckle, leaving Sherlock to stare in disbelief at the now-empty space in the doorway she had occupied.

 

* * *

In the absolute dead of night, a lone figure steps into an alleyway. She props her back against a wall, her leather jacket scraping against the rough brick. She lights a cigarette, and her face is obscured by the plume of smoke she exhales. She pulls out a mobile from her pocket. For a moment, the only sound in the dead quiet of the night is the discordant beeping of the mobile as the woman punches in a series of numbers.

After a moment of ringing, an unsettling voice answers. “Did you get it?”

The woman suddenly loses the appetite for the cigarette and stamps it out. Her lips are set in a thin line as the last bit of smoke curls out of her nostrils. “… No. He didn’t have it.”

“That is unfortunate. Continue the search. Be more careful than the last ones. They were stupid to get caught. I do hope you’re not stupid, Matilda.” And with that, the call ends. The woman puts the phone away and leans back against the wall, shivering despite the warm night.

 

* * *

When John bangs the knocker of 221B the next day, a cheerful Mrs. Hudson answers the door. “Ooh, there he is. We’re all so excited, dear. Come in, come in,” she says and ushers in a confused John, leaving him to wonder who ‘we’ are. 

Mrs. Hudson addresses the fact that John only carries one large duffel bag as they climb the stairs. “You travel light, I see. My brother is a military man. He does the same. I do hope you’ll feel comfortable enough here to settle in though, dear. Perhaps buy a few more things.”

When they reach the door, Mrs. Hudson turns to him and whispers conspiratorially, “You look very nice, dear.” John looks down at his own clothes in surprise, having momentarily forgotten what he had put on. He is wearing trousers and a dark blue moto jacket with a grey pullover. It has been difficult for him, wearing civilian attire again, yet he still endeavours to make an effort since he is a head physician at St. Bart’s and feels he should look the part. It also occurs to him that he may need to explain to Mrs. Hudson that he is not gay before things get out of hand.

“Ah, hello, John. Come in.” Sherlock opens the door for John and ushers him in, taking in his appearance with a sweeping gaze. And John might be imagining it, but he could swear that Sherlock seems to linger on John’s biceps, which his jacket hugs rather tightly. The thought makes him rather uncomfortable, and he wishes not for the first time that he had the power to break awkward silences. He instead busies himself with taking in the flat, which appears much cleaner than last time. He wonders if Mrs. Hudson had a hand in that. He looks to Sherlock and nods with approval.

Sherlock smiles. “I’m glad everything is to your liking.”

“I’ll leave you two alone to enjoy the new place,” Mrs. Hudson says with a chipper grin, and slips quietly out the door.

John and Sherlock share a look which dissolves into chuckling. Without thinking, John signs,  _One of us will have to tell her at some point …_

“That we’re not a couple? Yes, I suppose so. You have to admit, though, that it is quite amusing.”

John’s hands are frozen almost comedically in place as he stares at Sherlock.

“Ah, yes, I went about beginning to teach myself BSL last night. I must admit, however, that I have not mastered it yet. Perhaps you can help me. Real teachers are much more effective than online resources, after all.”

John nods. _Thank you,_ he signs.

Sherlock shrugs. “It was only prudent that I learn to sign. You hand was bound to get tired from all the writing.”

John snorts in spite of himself, which Sherlock seems pleased to hear. “I thought once you were done unpacking that we could order takeaway. I would offer to help but it seems that it won’t take you very long,” Sherlock says, nodding to John’s duffel bag, which he is still holding, he realizes. “I know a great curry place in Kensington. The owner is no doubt running a small money-laundering operation in the back, but the lentil dahl is incredible.”

 

* * *

The unpacking takes John all of 10 minutes, but he lingers in his room afterward. He smooths down the bed, freshly made with military precision, and lets himself fall onto it. He stares up at the ceiling and exhales with the relief of being in a real flat and not the cramped bedsit that he has lived in since he’s got back. His room is nice, if not a little bare. Perhaps he will take Mrs. Hudson’s advice and buy a few more things. Part of civilian life is settling down. John has never been able to settle down. But now, with a new job and a nice flat, perhaps he will be able to.

John gets lost in his own mind and loses track of the time, but after awhile, the deep rumble of Sherlock clearing his throat breaks him out of his reverie. He looks up, questioningly, and Sherlock is gazing at him peculiarly with those burning eyes. “Food’s here,” he says and turns around to leave.

What a peculiar man, John thinks. He does not want to get up, but the smell of curry has already made its way upstairs and it smells too damn good to pass up.

 

* * *

They watch telly in the sitting room. It’s some terrible ‘who’s the father’, shock-and-awe-type show that John could never imagine himself being a fan of. Sherlock, however, is a bit more invested.

“No, no, don’t you see, he’s not the father! Just look at the tobacco stains on his fingers!”

He realizes that most would find these outbursts irritating, but he finds every deduction fascinating. And Sherlock’s level of emotional investment in the programming serves to make it much more entertaining.

Near the end of the program, Mrs. Hudson popped in. “Oohoo. John, dear, I do hope you’ve settled in alright. I thought you boys might be interested in what’s on the Beeb at the moment.”

Worldessly, Sherlock turns to the BBC station and they watch the latest news report.

_Welcome to BBC One. This is the evening news. The string of robberies that has plagued East London continues with another break-in in Hackney last night. Authorities have yet to apprehend the culprit. Scotland Yard asks that anyone with information regarding these crimes come forward. Dr. Kirsten Zhang was the most recent victim. She says ——_

Sherlock turns the channel back to the trash telly station. “Boring!” he proclaims. But John grabs the remote from him and turns back to the news. The interview with Christina Zhang is rapping up.

_I know her,_ John signs. _She works at Bart’s._

The next interview is with a Mr. Tobias Young, who had also been robbed. John stares in shock. He snaps at Sherlock to get his attention. _And he was my patient last week._

Then, a collection of photos of other victims flashes across the screen. John stands up at this, and walks to stand in front of the telly to examine the faces.

He turns back to Sherlock, who is staring at him intently. He takes out his notepad.

_I know almost all of them. This is too coincidental._

 

Sherlock looks mildly surprised for a moment and then smiles. “Yes, John, I do think you’re right.” He looks at John expectantly, waiting, with that strange, excited glint in his eyes.

John turns over this new information in his head. And then it hits him. The attempted mugging on him. The doctor he had heard in surgery the other day complaining about her office being rifled through. Christina and his former patient being robbed. He scrawls furiously on the notepad.

_Someone is targeting people at St. Bart’s._

 

Sherlock’s smile grows. “Is it a case then, Sherlock? What does John say?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

“John has managed to deduce in less than one minute what Scotland Yard has failed to realize in two weeks. The muggings, the robberies, they’re all connected.”

“Oh, how wonderful, John!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, and John wonders what kinds of things this woman has seen in her life to make her so excited about a string of violent crimes.

“Yes, wonderful indeed,” Sherlock says quietly to himself with a predatory glint in his eyes. “The game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'm not very familiar with sign language, so apologies if the translations are not accurate :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! More to come soon :)


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